The Art of Defiance
by Sweet Valentine
Summary: [Der Glockner von Notre Dame] Esmeralda consists of a strong will and stubborn constitution. She does not shirk at confrontation – she embraces it. She accepts challenge and difficulty and welcomes both with open arms.  She’s always been that way.


**No, it's not Parmi, I know. But it was something that was bothering me, begging to be written. And I'm a wuss, so I complied. **

**It is important to note that this is based off of "Der Glockner von Notre Dame." Basically, Victor Hugo wrote "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." And then Disney made a movie of it. And then, there was a French musical called "Notre Dame de Paris" which was based off the book. And then, there was a German musical "Der Glockner von Notre Dame" which is based off of the Disney movie. So, yeah…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own "Der Glockner von Notre Dame." If I did, the musical would have come to the states a LONG time ago. And I don't own the characters. Damn. **

**Oh, and this is a ONE-SHOT. So, don't ask me to continue. I may or may not do one-shots of other characters, but I haven't decided.**

**Enjoy. : ) **

_**The Art of Defiance**_

Esmeralda consists of a strong will and stubborn constitution.

She does not shirk at confrontation – she embraces it. She accepts challenge and difficulty and welcomes both with open arms. She's always been that way.

When she is a young girl, her mother is a dancer – beautiful and lithe and slender, and from the very first minute Esmeralda sees her mother dance, she knows, just _knows_, that she wants to be a dancer too. She tells her mother as much.

Her mother laughs. "You, a dancer?" Another peal of mirth, with gentle mockery creeping into dulcet tones. "My child, you've not the figure!" And it is true – even for her age, Esmeralda's curves are becoming apparent. And the truly great dancers have no curves.

But Esmeralda is not one to take "no" for an answer. And the very fact her mother and the other dancers tell her she cannot do it is all the more reason to try.

So she sneaks off when she can, to find a plot of open space, and practices the pirouettes she sees her mother do so often. She is not good (and will never truly _be_), but she is convinced that if she twirls fast and sways enough, she will get better. She doesn't need talent or choreography; all she needs is movement. One time, she moves so hard and fast, and because she is little and illogically equates grace with complex spinning, she tries to perform a brilliant weave, whirling furiously, but loses her balance and goes tumbling to the earth. She collides, palms pressing flat against the cold dampness there, cheek smacking against the ground.

She refuses to cry.

And as she bites her lip down to swallow the pain, a pair of strong arms lifts her, gently cradling her. Her father speaks serenely, commenting lightly that perhaps she should find another talent to make full use of, another hobby that would fill her purse with coins.

She shakes her head, and he laughs. "Oh, blessed am I, to have a mule for a daughter!"

As she grows older, she dances more and more, and her parents pass on, and she never pauses because she will not allow herself to mourn, and the dancing continues, and her purse does fill with coins, though there are whispers in the community that the gold comes because of her figure rather than her skill.

She will not let their comments fall on her ears. And she twirls along.

One day, she is faced with the prospect of dealing with an over-eager soldier, who is unable to resist groping the abundant flesh that defines her bosom. She slaps him.

And then she finds herself being dragged away by a fellow gypsy, as fast as possible, out of sight and out of harm, because if she were to stay she would surely face terrible consequences.

She ends up in Paris, in a place where her people say Miracles occur. A man with a rather dashing face and mischievous countenance welcomes her, asking her what exactly she will contribute to "earn her keep."

"I dance," she responds, proudly. The man, whose nose, she notes, is extraordinarily long but somewhat fitting, eyes her skeptically, and his dark eyes brush over the length of her body.

"Dance. Good." At first, she thinks him genuinely impressed. And then, he calls out to the male gypsies: "A girl who looks like Esmeralda is sure to prove an asset to us all!"

They laugh, and indignant, she raises her head a little higher. She'll show them.

That night, she practices her dancing. But here, in the Court of Miracles, the ground is soft, softer than what she is used to, and it is on the soggy earth her ankle twists unnaturally, and she feels herself fall. Mud soils her skirts, and she curses under her breath, but then two sure arms begin to lift her from the ground. For a minute, she is confused, and thinks it is her father, but it is only Clopin Trouillefou. He is looking at her so peculiarly.

"What?" She spits. His face splits into a wicked smile.

"If you happen to fall in your routine during the day, you needn't worry, I'm sure. Just unlace your blouse." Though his tone is derisive, she knows the sentiment is complimentary. His eyes wander her body again. She snorts.

"I would think that a man of such flamboyancy as you would try to warn me against that course of action." He raises an eyebrow quizzically. "How am I to be certain you'll not become jealous when I steal the handsome guards' attention away from you?"

Clopin breaks out laughing, a genuinely hearty laugh, at her daring. Smiling, he lifts her up, and then respectfully removes his hands from her.

It is in that moment Esmeralda knows that, though they will never be lovers, they will make wonderful friends.

She goes on dancing or, as Clopin crudely remarks, _seducing_. And for all his boorish remarks, he nonetheless chooses her to be the lead dancer for the upcoming festival. "You're the only one likely to garner any attention," he says flippantly, and she rolls her eyes at his impertinence. Despite his attitude, at the news, she practices and practices, so much that the heels of her feet crack under the constant pressure being exerted upon them, and her back goes rigid with pain during random intervals of her routine. But she is Esmeralda, defiant and strong.

She welcomes the pain.

Clopin remarks that such behavior is unbecoming of a damsel such as herself. She, naturally, does not care. One night, she dances so much that she turns her ankle (the one she normally injures – it has weakened over the years) and she still continues on, finding some unexplained gratification in the sharp sensations running up her leg.

Such conduct, she's sure, is a sign that she's slightly mad. But she smiles to herself, because she knows that at least Clopin is equally (if not more) as mad as her.

It is during the Festival that she realizes that though she will never be the finest dancer in all of France, she is the sultriest. And the realization does not make her sad, as she expected it would, but rather pleases her. She at least still has an identity.

However, underneath that identity of plump curves and full breasts lies a heart, compassionate and resolute, and it is that which makes her stand before the crowd, before the malicious priest, and cut the poor, sweet boy free. Esmeralda has always done what she wants, and what she wants is to always do the right thing.

Her greatest flaw is that she cannot realize why other people do not follow in her stead – but it is simply that they have not the strength she has.

It is her strength that drives her to do exactly what everyone tells her she should not. The priest tells her she is vile and cannot possible be good. She is anyway. The crowd tells her that she cannot free the hunchback. She will anyway. Her people, her identity _screams_ that she should not love a soldier, the Captain of the Guard of all. She does anyway.

That is who she is. She is of strong will and stubborn constitution. A mule. A fortress.

But she is still human. And she still makes mistakes. It only takes a misstep, and Frollo captures her, and for the first time in her life, she feels an arcane fear for her life. As she is tied to the stake, bound tightly, she wonders if perhaps she should accept his offer – be his, and live.

She stares into his eyes as he whispers her last chance. And then she realizes that if her strength fails her now, she is nothing.

She spits. He ignites. And flames dance all around her.

Her last coherent thought, she muses bitterly, is that the fire that encompasses her _is_ she – it is remarkably beautiful; a bright plumage of fierce color. It is dancing, and lacks grace, but has _movement_. And she becomes completely engrossed by it, as so many have been in the past engrossed by her.

It is a fitting end.

**AN: This is depressing like WHOA! But for some reason, I needed to write it.**

**For those of you who have never seen the musical, it is much darker than the movie. And in the end, Esme does die. So sad.**

**Please review. I'll be honest, I'm not completely satisfied with this, but I figured I might as well post it. I'd love to get feedback from you guys, that way if I ever choose to re-write it (and I know I will someday), I'll have something to go off of.**

**Thanks so much: ) **


End file.
